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Wart

I dreamt I had a huge wart on my face. It looked and felt like one of those conical shells. I was distressed by its size and the attention it would attract but he was nonplussed. And every time I felt my fingers straying over to check on it it seemed like it was shrinking, inwardly, wizening even.

A wild windy morning. I dressed for it and felt cosy under my two waterproof coats. Even the rain in my face didn’t irritate. Town is quiet. People are behaving.

The house is cleaned and here I sit ready to write and trying to send those demons packing. It doesn’t matter what happens. Just let it come. This is mine, no one else need see it or read it. And besides to not to do it, or at least try to, hurts.

I finished the other Trevor. What a pang I feel at the close of each book. Not just his. Now I’ve begun Sanditon. We finished watching adaptation for the second time last night. I want to know the original. The book is from the library. An old copy. The pages smell musty. And there are old stains.

I can see blue sky between the clouds. Now to work.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.